Cuckoo's Eggs
by netrat
Summary: COMPLETE! PLEASE R&R! When it becomes apparent to Allied High Command that Hogan is no longer working for their side, Crittendon is sent to investigate (complete with swagger stick and Secret Weapon). In response to the Hochstetter's Heroes Challenge.
1. The Observer

_DISCLAIMER: I still don't own Hogan's Heroes._

_SUMMARY: When it becomes apparent to Allied High Command that Hogan is no longer working for their side, Colonel Crittendon is sent to investigate (complete with swagger stick and Secret Weapon). In response to the Hochstetter's Heroes Challenge. _

_This effort is in response to my very own Hochstetter's Heroes Challenge, which requires:_

- _that at least one of the Heroes work(s) for Hochstetter, or pretend(s) to;_

- _a reference to Rumpelstiltskin; and_

- _a reference to British or American chocolate._

_I know that there's already one other response available on the net – "Hochstetter's Heroes", by Groundyonly – and I urge you all to read it, as it's brilliant. Now, I don't want to compete with the author... rather, I have something very different in mind. More humour, less Gestapo torture, if you want to put it that way. I should probably apologize in advance to British officers, beautiful women, and most of the canon characters... so don't take this too seriously, just enjoy it. Oh, and Linda – I'd be glad if you could review my not-so-little effort! Have fun._

*** signifies a change of perspective within the chapter

****

**_Cuckoo's Eggs_**

**_by netrat_**

****

**1 – The Observer**

Colonel Rodney Crittendon was briskly striding through the corridors of Allied High Command Centre, swagger stick under one arm. Paying no heed to the flurry of activity around him, he turned a corner and walked to the door behind which the office of General Sands, currently the man in charge of the German underground, lay. He entered the antechamber and had himself announced by the secretary, a woman rather too sour and elderly to merit much twirling of Crittendon's magnificent mustache.

General Sands was looking over some papers, but seemed glad at the interruption.

"Good morning, sir!" Crittendon proudly stood to attention.

"Rodney, old chap… good of you to come, very good. Have a seat." General Sands had been a highly decorated flyer before London called him home. The general opinion was that he'd been promoted out of concern for the wear and tear of Allied planes: Having a bombardier that heavy, so the joke went, put the same strain on the metal as transporting a herd of elephants would. Needless to say, Sands did not take kindly to any mention of his weight.

"Up for a top secret mission, Rodney?"

Crittendon's mustache went up proudly at both ends as he answered: "Any place, any time, sir. Always happy to do the old home country a favour, you know!"

"Indeed, Rodney. Let me be open with you: You're the best we've got here. Experience in Germany… _extensive_ experience"… even if most of it was as a prisoner at Stalag 16 after a rather ill-conceived attempt at ordering Papa Bear home…, "combat and commando training, the whole works. And I know you're a man of steely nerves and never-ending resources."

"I make rather good tea, too", Crittendon volunteered.

"Jolly good, old chap! Now, should you accept this mission, you'd be off tomorrow evening – back to Hammelburg in Germany.

"Hammelburg… that's the area where Colonel…"

"… Hogan. The American." Sands' normally jolly face darkened. 

"Are you ordering him home again?" 

"Not _exactly_", Sands replied, putting an odd strain on the last word. He shifted his weight behind the enormous desk that held his papers. "Rodney, old chap, I'll be honest with you. Strange things are happening at Stalag 13. Unusual things. _Not_", he continued, seeing Crittendon was about to voice a comment, "the usual unusual happenings. I'll be frank, no beating around the bush: We are not one hundred percent certain about Hogan's loyalities."

"You mean to imply he works for –"

"We are not one hundred percent certain", Sands repeated, sounding like he'd memorised the sentence. "We do have a reliable source alerting us to, as I said, _unusual_ occurrences." 

"And you want me to –" Crittendon prompted.

"Take a look, old chap. Think of yourself as an observer. We want you to investigate, look into every nook and cranny of Stalag 13, and report anything out of the orderly to us. You'll be given Priority One codes for the radio. If, and I hope this won't become necessary, we'll have to take further action…" Sands tried his best to look menacing but compassionate, and failed at both, "I trust that you are our man – both to continue the operation and to, uh, get Hogan out of the way if necessary."

Crittendon nodded, a sudden stale taste in his mouth. Eliminating a fellow Allied officer was not what he'd signed up for… still, if Hogan proved to be a turncoat… a man as dangerous as him…

"Sir! Permission to volunteer to go to Hammelburg!"

"Great, old chap. Knew I could rely on you." Suddenly, Sands leaned forward conspiratorially, his chair creaking ominously. "Now, I know you're a resourceful man – I see you got yourself a new swagger stick – but still, just in case, we'll be providing you with a secret weapon." He almost whispered the last two words. "Something to make your job at Stalag 13 a little easier."

"I'm afraid I don't understand."

"It's simple, Rodney. Hogan's men seem quite loyal to him, so you may have a hard time getting them to give you information." He paused to pick up the office phone and call his secretary: "Helen? Show Corporal Whealey in, if you please. Thank you."

"Now", he continued, "think about it. What could you offer a man who's been in a German prison camp for years?"

"A cup of good old tea?" Crittendon said.

"To the French and the Americans?" _Not too_ _likely_, Crittendon had to admit.

Just as he was about to say something else, the door opened and in came, followed by Helen who paused at the doorstep, a buxom blonde woman wearing a RAF uniform and the most winning smile Crittendon had ever seen outside his mirror. General Sands beamed:

"Rodney, may I present your traveling companion, Corporal Fenella Whealey."

She had… Crittendon struggled to find the right words… _curves_. Lots, all in the right places. Golden hair. Corn-blue eyes with a sparkle in them that seemed, to Crittendon, directed entirely at him. "Miss… excuse me, Corporal… let me assure you that I'm most pleased to meet you. I have just volunteered for the mission in question."

"Oh, you are so _brave_, Colonel", she replied with a look of adoration. Crittendon felt his chest swell and his mustache curl at the ends.

"Corporal Whealey has had the same commando training as you have", General Sands said. Crittendon allowed himself to conspiratorially wink at her, in order to make her feel that, though a subordinate… if a very shapely one… she was considered a member of the elusive Fort Westing Week-End Training Course From Hell Club. "She's also a qualified radiowoman, so you can rely on her for the reports."

"Good ma- woman", Crittendon said appreciatively. "May I ask if you have any field experience? Germany is currently a rather dangerous place, I'm afraid."

"Not yet", the blonde admitted, blue eyes wide open, only to add: "But with you as my superior officer, I don't feel at all frightened… sir!"

Crittendon couldn't prevent the – rather modest, or so he thought – grin that spread on his face. For him, General Sands' request had just turned into the best gift he'd had since his fourtieth birthday last year.

So, what do you think? Reviews are appreciated!


	2. The Nest

**2 - The Nest**

Crittendon wrapped his scarf as tightly around his neck as fashion permitted, then went looking for Fenella whose parachute had landed about fourty yards away. He hated the German weather – it always seemed to be winter in this wretched country, whenever he went there. Probably the reason why old Dolphie and his chaps were so intent on occupying other countries… Tahiti was just lucky to be far enough away to escape the sun-seeking German Generals. Still, there must be something a fellow could do to brighten up the country and remind people that home's the place to be. Plant a few flowers, maybe. Crittendon firmly believed in the peace-making power of geraniums.

"Sir!" A frightened young voice called out, and then a blonde shadow detached itself from the German forest around the little clearing. "Sir, I was afraid I'd lost you!"

"No worries, young mi- Corporal. Just you settle down with me and wait for Hogan's men to pick us up."

It didn't take long, too… though Crittendon had to admit he'd had far worse tasks than comforting an attractive young woman in the middle of a dark German forest. Finally, they heard a few twigs breaking and a voice demanding, without much enthusiasm: "Colonel! Are you 'ere?"

***

Fenella turned around and saw a sour-looking man standing between the trees. He was wearing a RAF uniform with the cap askew and advancing towards Crittendon with badly disguised impatience… which disappeared immediately when he caught sight of her.

"Pleased to meet you, miss! Can't tell you how pleased… only lady I've seen for years is LeBeau in drag! 'xcuse me, where's me manners… I'm Corporal Newkirk. Peter, to you. We're all a little informal 'ere…" He paused when Crittendon loudly cleared his throat, but didn't stop beaming at her. His eyes were even bluer than hers.

Without turning towards Crittendon, he said: "If you'll care to follow me, miss… I'll bring you in through the tunnel. It may be a bit frightening in there, with the darkness, but don't worry… just stay close and I'll protect you!" He winked. It was probably well that he didn't look at Crittendon, she decided after throwing her superior officer a quick glance. Crittendon looked ready to have him… well, thrown into prison, probably. Which, in the circumstances, admittedly didn't seem like much of a threat.

***

While keeping a perfectly composed face, Crittendon did his best to study the faces of the men surrounding him in the barracks. He prided himself on his psychological skills – almost as much as on his leadership qualities, in fact – and felt that he could well employ his experience here. So, what did a bunch of traitors look like? Hogan was his usual friendly self… even more so than normally. The man had always been a charmer, but today he was positively beaming. Was it because of Fenella, or did he have something to hide? So far, he'd agreed to everything Crittendon had said – admittedly, most of it had been about the barracks' beautifully rustic interior. (Crittendon also prided himself on knowing how to say something nice about everyone's home, but Stalag 13 almost had him stumped. The place was an even worse dump than he remembered.) The little Frog, LeBeau was his name, had been all smiles and insane small talk until Fenella had followed the negro, Kinchloe, to the radio in the tunnels. Then he'd fallen back into the sullen silence which the rest of the men shared. One could almost get the idea that, Crittendon mused, they didn't like him – him, a fellow Allied soldier and war hero! So maybe they still owed him a grudge for being the one to almost replace their beloved Hogan – they were all enlisted men and probably didn't realize that London gave the orders and he followed them, just like everyone else. (Well, _better_ than most, but still –)

"So you see, old chap, we'll only stay until further orders – can't be more than a week or two!" Crittendon turned around, inadvertedly tripping over a chair some careless fellow had put there. Newkirk caught him before he could tumble against the stove, so no harm done. "Thank you, my son." Newkirk muttered something inaudible under his breath, which had the Frog chuckling evilly and the American, Carter, staring blankly. Good man, that Carter – a bit slow perhaps, but at least he did not participate in childishly insulting officers under one's breath.

"Can you tell me anything about those orders of yours?" Hogan demanded.

Crittendon allowed himself a smile. Such transparent ploys might work on Jerry, but not on the RAF's finest! "Sorry, old chap, I can't. Top secret, you see."

"Another secret order, eh?" Hogan replied, with a charming grin that made Crittendon ponder whether the comment had been an insulting one. He'd hesitated too long for a sharp reply, so he settled on ignoring the remark. "That's right. I'm sure you'll understand."

"Sure." Hogan gestured to one of the men, who opened the barracks door and disappeared outside. Crittendon would have liked to ask where he was going in the dark, but chose not to arouse suspicion right away. Instead, he yawned threatrically. "So, where can you put us up for the night? Wouldn't dream of causing any inconvenience, you know."

"I'm afraid it's not the Hilton, but there's a second bunk in my room."

"Sir, what about Corporal Whealey?" Carter spoke up. 

Newkirk immediately nudged him. "Don't you worry 'bout 'er, Guv'nor… she'll be fine 'ere with us."

"_Oui_, Colonel!"

"She can have my bunk!"

"Mine too!"

"No, mine!"

"GUYS!" Hogan shouted over the clamour, followed by a hasty glance towards the door as if he'd expect a guard to burst in any minute. "I'm sure she'd appreciate your offers, but sorry, this ain't a co-ed prison camp. She'll sleep in my office."

A few responses came, none of which Crittendon would ever have allowed under _his_ command. He craned his neck to spot the hecklers, but Hogan seemed completely oblivious to their calls.

"Me and Colonel Crittendon will stay here for tonight. Olsen, Scotty, you've just volunteered your bunks."

"But Colonel, where shall we sleep?"

"On Fenella's doorstep!" someone shouted.

"In the tunnels!"

"Klink 'as a guest bed, doesn't 'e? Just ask 'im nicely!"

Olsen threw his cap at Newkirk, then grudgingly surrendered his bunk and went to find himself another resting place. "I dreamed of _frauleins_ last night", the bearded Scotty whispered conspirationally to Crittendon as he jumped down from his bunk, only to add apologetically: "Hope I didn't dribble too much on the blanket." Feeling himself surrounded by the enlisted men's grins, Crittendon made a mental note to swipe a clean blanket, provided such could be found here, off another bunk before he'd lay his head down.

_Disgusting way to behave in an officer's presence_, he thought as he lay awake wrapped in Carter's blanket – the young man seemed to him the least likely to do anything disgusting to the bedding – and pondered the mission that brought him here. Surely even an American could keep better discipline! Perhaps… yes, that would be it… most likely this was all part of some great plan to help the Germans win the war. Crittendon had always suspected Hogan of trying to disrupt Allied morale, ever since the man had given him such a hard time about his beautiful geranium-planting plan. He'd chosen not to voice his concerns, as Papa Bear's every endavour met with such praise in London… _still_, he thought smugly, _Hogan has never been able to fool me_. The younger officer might be clever, but now he'd have a worthy enemy breathing down his neck, watching his every step: If there was a cuckoo anywhere in the Allied nest, Colonel "Eagle Eye" Crittendon would find it and wring its bomber jacket-clad neck.

So, what do you think? Reviews are appreciated!


	3. The Gentlemen

**3 - The Gentlemen**

The next morning's roll call was the same dull event as every day – but when the group of half-asleep men stumbled back into the barracks, they were greeted by a sight more invigorating that a huge pot of coffee:

Fenella, her open uniform jacket revealing rather a lot of her shapely chest, brushing her hair in front of the sink with a critical expression that, to the prisoners, made her face seem even lovelier.

Suddenly, men that usually were content just throwing themselves back onto the bunks and doze until called for work details, remembered the better inventions of civilisation.

"Breakfast! Miss, may I offer you some of Cadbury's finest?" With a flourish, Newkirk magicked a chocolate bar from his sleeve, unwrapped half of it and gallantly held it out for Fenella to take.

"Oh! How did you –?"

"I'm a magician, lady!"

"And a pickpocket", LeBeau murmured loud enough for everyone to hear. Newkirk shot him a dirty glance which he countered with a suggestive waggling of his eyebrows, directed at Fenella.

"Don't listen to LeBeau… he's French." Newkirk pronounced the last word as if it explained everything.

"LeBeau?" Fenella screwed her face into a lovely frown as she concentrated on where she'd heard the name before. "So he's the one who likes to dress up as a woman!"

The look on the little Frenchman's face was priceless.

"Yeah, man! There's no finer lady anywhere than Madame … Yvette … LaGrange!" Olsen guawffed, clapping LeBeau on the shoulder.

"For all your dress-making and dancing needs –"

"- even Hochstetter couldn't resist her charms –"

"_Taisez-vous_! Shut up! _Vous etes tres grands idiots_…" The next few sentences, wrapped into a string of unintelligible French, were entirely lost on the audience. "And anyway, Newkirk makes a much better woman than I do!" LeBeau ended, a glint in his eye.

"I don't, you bloody Frog!"

"_Je dis seulement_ … I just say … 'You look good in basic black'!"

"That does it!" Newkirk threw himself at LeBeau, who ducked away and lashed out himself, missing Newkirk but hitting Olsen who was standing right behind, and who in turn tried to grab the Frenchman's collar. Soon, a brawl was in full swing and those that were not fighting, were heckling the fighters.

"You! Are you crazy, fighting among yourselves?" The well-fed Sergeant of the Guards, Schultz, came rolling in, parting brawlers and hecklers alike. He threw his rifle away, grabbing LeBeau instead and attempting to pry him away from Newkirk, whom the Frenchman was clinging to with one hand and punching in the chest with the other. "Are you crazy, Cockroach? And you, _Englander_?

"Just a little high spirits, Schultz", Hogan claimed, who chose this very moment to come out of his office. "You know how it is – the weather's unusually warm, you feel all young and energetic… ready to punch someone…"

"Colonel Hogan, I don't see –" Looking in vain for help, Schultz turned around… which was a mistake since it brought him face to face with Fenella. She tried to slam on her cap and duck behind Scotty, but even Schultz had already noticed that she did not look one bit like his usual prisoners.

"Colonel Hogan, what is all this monkey business about?"

Hogan raised a finger in warning: "Now, Schultz, didn't your mother tell you to mind your language in the presence of a lady? This is our guest from London and she –"

"I don't hear anything! I don't see anything! I –"

"- don't _know_ anything!" the prisoners chorused. Newkirk stepped forward, laying an arm around the guard's shoulders and gently leading him towards the exit. "It's all right, Schultzie. She's not really 'ere… you're just having hallucinations. Prob' ly comes from all the maggots in the rations…"

"Now, after this fine display of gallantry…", Hogan began as soon as the door shut behind Schultz. A few of the men had the good grace to look sheepish, although LeBeau, for his part, continued to throw the returning Newkirk dirty glances. "… we may get on with the day's work." He paused, looking around. "I knew something was missing! Where's Crittendon?"

"In the tunnel", Sam Minsk answered, shrugging. "He said he wanted to catch a breath of fresh air."

"A breath of… Never mind." Hogan took off his cap, ran a hand through his hair, put the cap back on. "Newkirk, LeBeau, you fetch him. Right now."

"Do we 'ave to?"

"_Yes_. That'll teach you to be nice to each other."

Grumbling, they went to the entrance under Kinch's bunk. The others watched how Newkirk tripped over LeBeau's outstretched leg, narrowly avoiding falling face down to the floor. "You bloody –"

"As I said", Hogan continued loudly, to drown out the bickering that continued to be heard – if slightly muffled – from the tunnel. Only then he realized that Fenella was still peeking out from behind Scotty. "Corporal Whealey, may I suggest that you accompany my men? Maybe the Colonel needs your help."

He watched her climb into the tunnel and waited for a while.

"Now", he tried again, just as the men were getting impatient. "I don't know why Crittendon's _really_ here, but I have a bad feeling. Make sure you watch your step around him… and her. _Especially_ around her."

"But sir, she's –"

"— pretty? So was Mata Hari."

Olsen spoke up: "Sir, you don't honestly think she's a spy for the Germans, do you? She came with Crittendon!"

Hogan shook his head: "I can't imagine _him_ turning traitor, no."

"Well, he did steal my blanket." Carter suddenly found himself in the center of attention. "It's true!" he said, defiantly. "He switched it for Scotty's when I was brushing my teeth! Mine was much newer, it only had a hole or two!"

"All right, Carter, but stealing your blanket hardly makes him a German spy."

"I don't know." Carter still looked uneasy. "It's certainly not very gentleman-like."

"You're right, and I hereby give you permission to steal it back. Still, we got bigger things to worry about now. Is everything set for tonight?"

A chorus of "Yes, Colonel"s arose.

"Good. Let's just keep Crittendon out ot the way, then."

So, what do you think? Reviews are appreciated!


	4. The Night Shift

**4 – The Night Shift**

Crittendon found it hard to sleep on a prison camp bunk, let alone surrounded by enlisted men. There'd have to be something done about the sleeping arrangements… _soon_. He shifted uncomfortably, noting that his blanket somehow felt thinner and more threadbare than last night, but dismissing the suspicions that came with the thought. To make things worse, when he did manage to fall asleep he kept dreaming of Stalag 16, and though he had a few pleasant memories of the place – mostly to do with lecturing younger officers – it didn't exactly make for restful sleep.

Then again, very little rest could be found in any case, with prisoners whispering and creeping from their bunks and through various tunnel entrances. Even though Hogan had refused to tell him anything much, Crittendon knew that tonight the prisoners had a mission on – no doubt the blowing-up of some bridge or convoy or God knew what else. He'd almost been stepped on by a man climbing down from the upper bunk. It was beginning to feel like an overcrowded boys' dormitory in here, with everyone trying to sneak off on nightly dates. Although the idea brought fond reminiscences of Crittendon's own schooldays with it, he couldn't really relish it.

What was Hogan up to, anyway? Was it really a mission in the service of London… or the opposite? There were no English bridges anywhere near enough to blow up, but Crittendon was convinced that Hogan would find a way if he wanted to disrupt the Allied war effort. He did his best to listen and keep his eyes open in the dark, but nothing more than snatches of whispered conversation could be caught. Finally, he made up his mind to sneak down into the tunnels – he wasn't invited, but in the dark, one man looked like the other – but he barely got to the entrance before being pulled back and informed in a Cockney accent that "sorry mate, club's full, members only". In his mind, he filed a memo to _demand_ of Hogan to be fully involved in further missions. He'd see the senior POW about this first thing in the morning – right after roll call, he thought.

At 5:30 a. m., he hid with Corporal Whealey in Hogan's office as the fat Sergeant of the Guard barged in, herding the prisoners outside like cattle. They took ages to fall out, a sign of sloppiness Crittendon was thoroughly disgusted with. Even at Stalag 16, he'd prided himself and his men on always being the first to make it for roll call. In addition to their slow speed, most of the prisoners were yawning, with Olsen and Carter even leaning shoulder to shoulder, half-asleep. Questioned by the fat guard, Hogan responded: "Well, you know how it is on Saturday nights… you meet a pretty girl, stay out late…"

"Colonel Hogan! There are no girls here and you cannot stay out late because you are not allowed to be out at all!"

Hogan put on a puzzled expression: "No girls? You mean to say that the blonde yesterday wasn't real?"

"Colonel Hogan! You must stop this –"

Luckily for the Sergeant, Kommandant Klink strode towards the group, demanding – and getting – a satisfying report. Then he stood waiting, rubbing his hand, before starting to speak:

"Prisoners! I have some news to give you, and I am sure you will thank me for this kindness." Apparently he could already see several men opening their mouths to reply, because he quickly went on: "A group of terrorists undertook to destroy the newly-rebuilt Messerschmidt factory east of here last night." Smiling, he allowed a few moments for the inevitable cheers, though Crittendon could see that neither Hogan nor his staff did participate very much. Newkirk and Carter shared worried looks.

"However, I am most pleased to say that their attempt was a complete failure. The factory is still intact, and while the terrorists could escape, there's no doubt that the Gestapo will have arrested them by this evening. As you can see, it just doesn't pay to be an enemy of the glorious Third Reich!" At this, the prisoners predictably started shouting insults, so that Klink hurried to have them dismissed. Hogan and his men were the last to make their way into the barracks. None of them seemed to have been surprised by the news.

"Colonel! I must talk to you!"

Hogan, who'd just grabbed the coffeepot, glanced at Crittendon and nodded, following the older officer into the little side room while Fenella went to mingle with the prisoners.

"So, no luck yesterday?" If Hogan was surprised that Crittendon had cleverly divined his involvement in the failed attack, he didn't show it. Instead, he merely shrugged his shoulders: "On the contrary… everything went as planned."

"Jolly good, old chap! Always keep a stiff upper lip, that's what I'm saying. Of course, you don't need to be ashamed in front of me… even the best of us can't always succeed." He was sure to see a glimmer of gratitude in Hogan's eyes. It must be hard to admit failure to a superior officer… such a highly-decorated one as Crittendon, no less… 

"Is there anything else you want to talk about, Colonel?" Hogan asked, stifling a yawn.

"Oh. Yes. Jolly good of you to remind me. You see, I've had new orders regarding myself and Corporal Whealey… we're to stay here until further notice, lending you a bit of an hand. Of course, I expect to be fully involved in all further missions."

"Of course." Hogan could not wholly hide a sigh… must be pretty tired, the poor fellow. "May I ask how you plan on doing that? Especially Fen- the Corporal. As you might have noticed, it's hard to hide a woman in an all-male prison camp."

"That's right, glad you asked. You see, having received the full training, she'll give you a hand with all the spying… she'll be right there in the Kommandant's office, pretending to be his secretary."

"And how", Hogan asked, obviously startled, "do you propose that we convince him to go along?"

"Wouldn't dream of telling you, old chap. Of course I know how I'd do it, but where'd be the sport if I told you? I'm sure you'll find a way."

Reviews are, as always, appreciated!


	5. The Secretary

**5 – The Secretary**

When the senior POW barged into the Kommandant's antechamber without so much as knocking, Helga merely looked up from her typewriter and resisted the urge to pat down her hair. "_Guten Morgen_, Colonel Hogan."

"Good morning, _schoenes Fraulein_." He advanced towards her, smiling. Knowing from experience that typing was almost impossible in Hogan's presence – somehow, the letters tended to re-arrange themselves so that 'request an increase of rations' became 'the enemy looks very sexy today' –, she stood up and positioned herself between Hogan and the door to Klink's office. "The Kommandant does not want to be disturbed, he says."

"Does he?" For once, Hogan didn't seem to care about Klink at all. "Then I'm afraid I'll have to disturb his secretary." He leaned closer so she could smell his after-shave. The man had been a prisoner for three years, and he was using after-shave. It was details like this one that Helga found so fascinating. And of course, knowing that the after-shave was meant to be noticed by _her_, the only woman within a twenty-mile-radius, helped.

"That you do", she murmured, feeling his lips – almost, but not quite – brushing against hers.

"I'm the enemy, Helga. I have to disturb someone." He kissed her, gently first, then, as she responded, more intensely. Soon, they had their arms around each other's necks and Helga felt, not for the first time, that she'd lucked into the best job any girl could have in times like these.

"Would you like to disturb me some more, Colonel?" she asked as he paused for breath. However, he gently retreated.

"Look, Helga, I'd love to continue this… in fact, I hate to ask what I'm going to ask, but… wouldn't you like to go on holiday for a week or three?"

"What?" This was not at all what she'd expected.

"Come on." The man knew how to make the best use of his innocent, boyish looks, that's for sure. "I know you haven't taken any leave of absence for _ages_, and you probably want to visit your auntie and little cousin again…"

"What? No! I mean, yes. I miss them. But… anyway, Klink won't let me go, he's afraid Burkhalter's sister will show up, just like the last time." From what she'd gathered, the mighty Kommandant had spent most of her leave hiding in his office, cursing Burkhalter who'd seen a chance to let his sister loose on an eligible bachelor. Apparently, Hogan had convinced Klink that Gertrude Linkmeyer was a spy sent by the Gestapo, and had to be pacified with smooth talk and candlelight dinners. After two nerve-wracking weeks, Klink had been so relieved to see Helga that he'd actually given her five marks' pay rise. She couldn't help wondering what Hogan was up to now.

Then again, it wasn't that she didn't trust him. He wouldn't harm her employer, and he could do to the rest of the German military whatever he pleased. Besides, this pleading expression on his face… "All right, Colonel. I will take two weeks' leave, if Klink lets me."

"Thank you! You're a treasure, Helga." He kissed her again, then went business-like within an instant. "Klink will let you if you organise for your cousin Friederike to replace you. You'll present her to him before you leave."

"My cousin?" So… Hogan had found a strange woman, and if Klink was supposed to approve of her, she had to be pretty. "Colonel, if he likes her, what if he prefers her to me?"

"Who ever could, darling?" He gave her his best charming smile. It worked, like it always did. She felt her knees turn to butter. Still…

"She'll be here only temporarily, so don't worry. Two weeks and she'll be gone without a trace, I promise."

"All right. I trust you. But you owe me", she considered, "at least three bars of chocolate for this." She had barely finished when he held them out- they'd  been tucked into the ever-handy inside pockets of his bomber jacket. Was she really that easy to read? She wondered if he'd brought more than three.

The Iron Eagle, most famous camp Kommandant in all of glorious Germany, was sitting cross-legged behind his desk, massaging his feet in too-narrow boots, and fretting.

"But Helga, you know what happened the last time you left." A visible shudder ran through the Kommandant's thin frame. "That harpyie… Burkhalter's sister… a man does not feel safe in his bed when she's around. _Especially_ in his bed", he added darkly.

"I promise, Kommandant, that she won't bother you this time."

"One word leaking about me having no secretary, and Burkhalter'll pack her off to me in a wedding dress…" He paused. "What did you say?"

Helga took a deep breath. "If the Kommandant has no objection, I could recommend my own replacement – my cousin Friederike. She's a nice girl, a hard worker, and", Helga watched him carefully, "also quite attractive, I've heard the boys say." 

"Oh?" Klink tried to look disinterested. "Well, I'm sure her looks are none of my concern. Just as long as you tell her exactly how to organise everything."

"_Ja, _Herr Kommandant."

"I want the files ordered alphabetically… backwards."

"_Ja, _Herr Kommandant."

"And my coffee with exactly three lumps of sugar and one spoonful of millk, not more."

"_Ja_…"

"And my helmet to be dusted _regularly_, make sure you tell her that!"

"Of course, Herr Kommandant."

Delighted with such unlimited agreement, Klink stopped rubbing his toes for a moment. "All right, Fraulein Helga, you have my permission to go on two weeks' leave. – One more question, though…" Suddenly, a haunted look had come into his eyes. Helga waited.

"Your cousin… is she of the marrying type? Does she have any relatives with influence in the Luftwaffe?" Helga shook her head, sincerely, as she hoped.

"Good. Good. I shall be looking forward to meeting her, then." He dismissed her, then made her pause at the door: "Oh, and Fraulein Helga? Get Schultz to help me take these boots off, they're killing me."

So, what do you think? Reviews are appreciated!


	6. The Gestapo

**6 – The Gestapo**

Since Helga had told Klink that she'd need to go on leave right away, she'd arranged to take 'Friederike' with her on her last work day, to show her around. One look at Fenella wearing an old skirt and blouse of Helga's, and Klink wasn't even remotely interested in her qualifications any more. He was striding through the office in a wonderful humour all morning, taking calls from Burkhalter and reports of budget decreases in stride, looking almost as gay as that time he'd been convinced that drinking heavy water made him re-gain his youth.

At noon, when he was just sitting down to dinner (to which he'd invited Fenella, but, thinking it not entirely prudent, she'd politely declined), a slight damper was put on his good mood in the form of Corporal Langenscheidt announcing that Major Hochstetter had just come through the gates. A few minutes later, the irate Major's voice could already be heard through camp:

"Kliiiiiiinnnnk!"

***

 "Sounds like Rumpelstiltskin's on the war path again", Kinch, listening in on the coffeepot, commented.

***

"To what do I owe the pleasure?" Klink, slightly flustered but fighting for composure, asked. "Do take a seat… should I have another plate brought? We're having sausages, nothing special, I'm afraid, but of course these are hard times…"

"Klink! Kindly stop prattling and listen!"

"Yes, Major, of course, Major, though I'm at a loss as to what could be so important… or have you found these terrorists that wanted to blow up the Messerschmidt factory?"

"No! This is precisely why I'm here! No, the Gestapo hasn't found them… and do you know why, Klink? Do you know why? Because they are _here_! Here", Hochstetter repeated, slightly out of breath, with a gesture that encompassed the Kommandant's room. A very uneasy Klink was trying to ascertain whether there were any terrorists lurking in his wardrobe, and at the same time feeling foolish for doing so.

"Here", Hochstetter went on after taking a deep breath. "In your prison camp, Klink! And your precious Colonel Hogan is their leader! I demand to speak to him at once!"

"But Major, I've just sat down to eat and –"

"Right now!"

"Well, maybe he would like to join us and we could –"

"Kliiiinnnk!"

Ten minutes later, they were in Klink's office… Klink, who was still wistfully thinking of his sausages, and Hochstetter with a smug expression on his face. The secretaries were listening in the antechamber, then quickly pretending to file a few papers when Schultz came wheezing in, followed by Hogan. Fenella hesitated as the door shut behind them, not sure if spying through the keyhole was allowed, but after Helga actually urged her to have a go, she crouched down.

She'd been surprised upon first seeing Hochstetter that such a short, ordinary-looking man could make so much noise. The way he was now strutting in front of Klink's desk, he certainly enjoyed keeping people on their toes.

"Ah, Hogan, the very man", he beamed as the prisoner was ushered in and flipped Klink a quick salute, completely ignoring the Gestapo agent. "Tell me: Who were the people aiding you in your little sabotage attempt the other night?"

Hogan was standing with his back to Fenella, but she could imagine the look of surprise on his face as he answered: "I'm sorry, Major… what sabotage attempt?" His voice was suddenly concerned: "Are you feeling all right, Major? I know it's winter but still, maybe you're suffering from a heatstroke or –"

"Hogannnn!"

Satisfied with the sound of his own shouting, the Major waited until silence reigned. Then: "I didn't expect anything but lies from you, but I thought I'd give you a chance nonetheless. You'll soon find that no-one makes a fool of the Gestapo for long."

"Oh, I don't know, _someone_ must have been managing for quite some time now."

For a moment, Hochstetter seemed speechless at this… but surprise quickly gave way to anger:

"Kliiinnnk! Is this the way you teach your prisoners to fear us? I _demand_ that you throw this insolent man in the cooler _right now_! I will question him there!"

Klink straightened in his chair, but quickly shrunk again under Hochstetter's glare. "Major, you have no jurisdiction…"

"Do you mean to say that you prefer to coddle your prisoners? Are you a weak Kommandant, Klink? Do you know where the Gestapo sends weak officers?"

"Hogan, that was very rude of you, and I sentence you to three days in the cooler", Klink said quickly, without looking at either man.

"Three days, Kommandant? What happened to your legendary fairness? I only…"

"No but's, Hogan! Dismissed!"

Fenella quickly straightened and pretended to re-do one of her braids, as the door opened in front of Schultz and Hogan. The Colonel looked rather smug for someone who'd just been confined to a cell. He winked at both girls in turn, and despite herself, Fenella felt her cheeks blush.

***

The men in the barracks were looking at each other over the coffeepot.

"Hochstetter's really not too bad an actor", Kinch commented, surprised at having something nice to say about their enemy.

"'Course, he only 'as to play 'imself."

"And he's angry at _mon_ _Colonel_ for letting all those underground agents escape."

"Well, none of 'em was our man, so what'd he bloody expect? That we'd chain 'em up an' drag 'em to 'is office in a nice row?"

"He _does_ think we're on his side, Kinch pointed out.

"Newkirk's right", Carter piped up. "It was bad enough having to sabotage their explosives. What a big bang that could have been!"

"Don't worry, mate. We'll blow the ruddy thing up all right, just as the Guv'nor promised."

"_Oui_. As soon as this is over…"

Carter glanced down at his feet, which he'd set on the entrance to the tunnel that led into the cooler: "I wonder what Hochstetter's telling the Colonel to do now?"

So, what do you think? Reviews are appreciated! I promise the next chapters will be longer.


	7. The English Rose

Melissa Eastham: Since you've called me on this before – I honestly don't think ALL the British are lousy cooks. It's just the way this story goes. :-)

**7 – The English Rose**

Crittendon, currently disguised as a German civilian in a suit made by the surprisingly nimble fingers of that insolent Cockney Corporal, strode briskly through the streets of Hammelburg, feeling a pang of compassion for the villagers doomed to live in such drab surroundings. Surely the Germans must envy each and every Londoner with his or her unlimited access to fine restaurants, theatres, and other places of amusement… Really, who could blame those poor souls? Of course, bombing half of London into rubble would not solve the dilemma, but how should these simple people realize the obvious? It took an officer to see the bigger picture! If only Crittendon'd been in charge… give them the money to build a few amusement halls, brighten up the place with some statues (possibly of himself)… and presto, no jumped-up little dictator to worry about. They might even have called this great scheme - The _Second_ Crittendon Plan.

Basking in what could have been his glory, Crittendon finally reached a small house – more like a hut – that lay right at the end of the village's main road. It was four o'clock in the afternoon. The only person in sight was a wizened old crone who was slowly hobbling around the garden, tending to her meager collection of rose bushes that looked like the damp spirit of the whole country had long since rubbed off onto them.

Nevertheless, Crittendon leaned forward across the low, white fence, sniffing the air and pronouncing, in rather stilted tones, that "upon my word, these beauties rival the most magnificent roses in England!"

The woman raised her head, showing him a smile rather lacking of teeth. "I thank you for your kind words", she equally carefully proclaimed. "I am a countrywoman of yours. But don't tell the neighbours", she added, slightly louder. "They think I'm dear Adolf's grandmother."

The code being successfully exchanged, she started hobbling, at an excruciatingly slow pace, towards the gate in the fence, which she opened to let Crittendon in. "Whatever you have to say", she murmured as he opened his mouth, "surely can wait until I've made some tea."

Crittendon, who a mere week after leaving London was already suffering from severe Earl Grey withdrawal, gladly followed her into the tiny but spotless kitchen where the woman, ignoring his offer to help, put the kettle on and took a jar of what looked like dried and crunched grass from a low shelf. "It's not as good as English tea", she apologized, "but it won't do to fuss in times of war, eh?"

"Indeed not", Crittendon agreed, with some difficulties folding his body into a tiny and rather rickety kitchen chair. 

"You're the other Colonel, aren't you? Robert told me you'd come, the dear boy." She scooped up a handful of leaves from the bottom of the jar, then hesitated: "I'm Mrs John Sterling, though they call me Frau Pfund here. I'd prefer you to address me as Mrs Sterling, in memory of my late husband."

"Of course, Madam." The late Lieutnant Sterling had been quite the miracle worker during World War One, before falling in love with a young native and deciding, for reasons Crittendon found extremely hard to fathom, to stay in Germany rather than take her back to London. Maria, or Mary, Sterling had grown to consider herself an Englishwoman, and had been quite an asset in the last few years, seeing it as her duty to support the country that had given her a husband. Even the ever-suspicous Gestapo would never believe an elderly lady to be a spy.

"I believe you have the advantage over me, my dear boy. I know that you spies are fussy about this sort of thing, but I always find it ankward to make conversation with people whose names I don't know."

Crittendon straightened, trying not to feel ridiculous for sitting in what appeared to be a children's chair. "I am Colonel Rodney L. Crittendon, Madam", he intoned over the singing of the kettle. "One of the RAF's finest, even if I do say so myself."

"Rodney", the woman mused, pouring hot water on the crushed leaves. "I may call you so, may I not? Robert and Rodney, how funny that you Allied Colonels have such alike-sounding names."

Crittendon, who'd have preferred not to hear about any similarities between himself and Hogan, quickly tried to change the topic. "May I say what magnificent tea you make?" he claimed in the face of the evidence, which looked and smelled rather suspicious to him. "It smells just like mother used to make it!"

"Thank you, my boy." She hobbled to a shelf at about chest height, which she nevertheless had trouble reaching up to, and grabbed another jar out of which she produced some stale-looking cookies. Arranging them on a plate which she offered Crittendon, she went on: "How strange that I've never met you before… the sight of a countryman would have brightened my mood these dark days. Oh, Robert is all right, but still… these Americans don't understand the meaning of culture. Did you know that he prefers coffee to tea?"

Taking a sip from her concoction, Crittendon could almost understand why, but still pretended to be delighted with the drink's foul taste. Why, it simply didn't do to correct a woman in matters of house-keeping! Her comment just went to show that Hogan, though an officer, would never be a gentleman. With a flourish, Crittendon grabbed a cookie and took a bite, feeling like his jaw would crack before the stale dough did. Then he had to resort to the tea again, to get the taste of the crumbs out of his mouth.

"I'm so glad to have company", the woman said, daintily holding her cup and taking small sips, like a sparrow would from a birdbath. "Do take another cookie, Rodney, I've been keeping them especially for my Allied guests." 

He politely declined, dipping his mustache into the tea and hoping it would drain enough liquid so he wouldn't actually have to drink in order to empty the cup. "Do you have many visitors, Mrs Sterling?"

"Oh, no, really only you and Robert… but he always comes in the dead of the night, and never has time for a cup. I do wish that horrible Kommandant of his would let him come at daytime, it would be much less stressful for both of us… But you'll have to excuse me, I keep boring you with my little troubles, while you no doubt have important things to tell me."

"Madam, I would never call anything about you boring", Crittendon stiffly proclaimed. "But… Robert…", it gave him some satisfaction to use that boyish name with regard to the oh-so-smug American Colonel – "has indeed given me a message for you." She looked at him expectantly as he paused, so that he felt the need to take another bite out of the cookie… a charitable act he immediately regretted. God alone knew what the woman put into the dough to make it taste like that! Rat's brains, probably, or some of that American 'spam' Hogan had tried to poison him with at dinnertime.

"Go on, my dear boy", the crone urged him. "I'm all ears."

"Ho- Robert would like you to take a little walk near the Hammelburg freight train station, and find out when the changing of the guard occurs. As soon as you know, you should come to Stalag 13 disguised as a farmer's wife, and tell him."

"The freight train station, yes", the woman mused, taking another sip of tea. "I've been wondering when they'd blow that one up… but if they do, where will Robert's boys get all their nice little Red Cross packages from?"

The thought had occurred to Crittendon, too, but then again, Hogan was not generally known for doing sensible things, or thinking too much about the consequences for that matter. "I'm sure he'll find a way, Mrs Sterling."

"He probably will", she agreed. "All right, my dear Rodney, tell him I accept this little assignment. I shall be around within the next few days."

So far, so good – he'd gotten rid of Hogan's message, and been given a chance to escape without having to swallow any more tea or cookies. Still, the doubts that had been growing on Crittendon's mind were getting stronger by the minute. Mrs Sterling, though a soldier's widow, was a civilian – a countrywoman to boot – an innocent, a brave lady doing her best to fight the horrible Germans she had been forced to live with. Didn't she deserve a warning? If Hogan was indeed working for the enemy, God alone knew what scrapes the poor woman could get into!

"Madam", he said. "I appreciate your patriotic zeal, and I will tell Robert that he can rely on you… however, I feel that it would not be gentleman-like to let you walk into danger without a word of warning."

She looked up, obviously worried: "Rodney, what are you trying to tell me?"

"Something I, strictly speaking, have no right to… but in memory of your late husband… Madam, I have been sent to Germany by people who feel that Robert's loyalty needs to be questioned. I'm afraid that your dear boy may well be working for the very people you are trying to fight."

"You mean Robert, Colonel Hogan, is a traitor?"

Crittendon nodded, trying not to feel like an Allied Colonel, but rather like a British gentleman whose duty was to protect innocent women from those smug, fast-talking villains who would ruin them. "I'm not saying it's a certainty, Mrs Sterling, but I urge you to watch your step."

Now she was shaking her head sorrowfully, a frown creasing it into even more wrinkles: "My dear boy, he's always been looking so young and innocent."

"Madam, as I said –"

Suddenly she looked up, her face hardening: "Oh, I'm afraid you're right, Rodney. You see, my mind is not what it used to be, but it just came to me what he let slip the last time he was here… he mentioned that he'd arranged to see a man called Hoch-stapler? Hoch–steirer? I'm afraid I'm not very good with names, but I do think I've heard about that man before, and he's a Gestapo agent."

_Hochstetter! _Crittendon realized, recalling what Fenella had told him about the irascible Major's visit. He'd pretended to come to interrogate Hogan, hadn't he? God alone knew what conspiracy the two of them had been weaving in the cooler! Hochstetter and Hogan… they might have fooled Allied High Command, that inbecile of a camp Kommandant, and possibly even some of Hogan's own men… but they'd never fool old 'Eagle Eye'! He'd better return to Stalag 13 as quickly as possible and try to foil the American's dastardly plans, whatever they might entail. Soon, Hogan would realize that there simply was no messing with the RAF's finest.

So, what do you think? Reviews are, as always, appreciated.


	8. The Tete a Tete

This is probably going to be the last instalment before Christmas. This chapter – involving feminine wiles, an unsuspecting male victim, and mispronounced French – should provide ample evidence for why I don't normally write romance. You have been warned.

_To Lauren (the Oboe one): She's not that stupid, she just admires Crittendon. I admit that the word _dumb_ may have _some_ use in the context. :-)_

**8 – The Tete-a-Tete**

As Helga had pointed out, 'Friederike' lived too far away to ride her bicycle to and from Stalag 13 every day; and since the camp's guest quarters happened to be unoccupied, and since it was only for two weeks… After some persuasion, Klink had, with his usual bad grace, submitted himself to the trouble and hassle of having a beautiful, unmarried young woman living right next door. 

Fenella had to admit that the guest quarters were way nicer than the prisoners' barracks; however, the latter had the distinct advantage of getting advance warning of Klink's visits. It was amazing how many reasons the supposedly hard-working Kommandant found to drop in:

- He just wanted to ask if everything had been properly cleaned. (Fenella had assured him that yes, everything was spotless… except for the desk drawers, but she really saw no reason to tell him she'd been searching those.)

- He'd just noticed that the cook, for some inexplicable reason, had prepared too much food for a single man to eat, and if maybe she happened to be hungry, they could… (This time, Fenella had accepted, thinking it a good chance for snooping around. However, though the man had talked throughout the entire meal, the only military information had been about the numerous times Hitler had personally congratulated him on the spotless state of his camp… not that Fenella believed one word about it).

- He'd thought (this had been yesterday at eight in the evening, when she'd already been in bed wearing one of Helga's nightshirts) that maybe he could lend her one of his pictures to brighten up the place, seeing that women liked pretty things. 

Though the last offer had made it difficult for her to mind her manners, Fenella had accepted what looked like a child's drawing in blue crayon, as gracefully as she could. The proud look on his face had awakened her suspicions that maybe the horrid thing was 'a true Klink'. From what she'd seen so far, it didn't seem unlikely that, in addition to a fine soldier, the man might also fancy himself a painter. He certainly had as little talent for the one as for the other. Not even a week as the man's secretary, and already she was wondering how someone that inept could ever have become a Colonel. Imagine him holding the same rank as Hogan, who, she had to admit, was especially handsome when looking the part of stern and responsible senior POW – or as Crittendon, who'd been brave enough to come to Germany _all alone_, while Klink wouldn't even look at the ridiculous little Hochstetter man without cringing! 

"Fraulein Friederike!" came what its owner – but no-one else – might consider a musical voice, from the corrior. _Please no, not again_, she thought.

Quick as a bunny, Fenella slid out of her chair and behind the curtains, feeling that her commando training came in handy even though she didn't happen to be, strictly speaking, on the battlefield. She didn't have to wait long for the knock on the door, followed by a not-particularly-tempting "Fraulein Friederike! It's me, Colonel Klink!" She kept still, listening to the creaking of the door as he opened it to peek into the lit, but apparently empty room. He might wonder where she was… for all she cared he might picture her on a date with that fat Sergeant of the Guard, just as long as he left her alone for the evening. She waited until the door closed and his footsteps grew distant, before coming out from behind the curtain and quietly sneaking to the door, feeling in desperate need of some sensible company.

The Colonel would have been her first choice, but he'd gone out… Hogan had asked him to meet an underground agent, and of course he'd bravely accepted the mission. No doubt it was dangerous… who knew what sort these underground people were, and what might happen if they, not recognising him, took him for a Gestapo agent? Crittendon, however, hadn't mentioned any of these dangers. Maybe he just hadn't wanted to embarrass the younger officer who clearly was in no hurry to go himself. Anyway, Crittendon wasn't here, so the only choice left were the prisoners. Quickly, Fenella dressed in what she hoped would pass for both street clothing and casual evening clothes, should the need arise, and quietly opened the door to step into the corridor.

Since Klink didn't even bother to have the area around his own quarters guarded, she was out in no time, but then hesitated. Marching across the compound and simply knocking on the barracks door didn't seem like the wisest move for Klink's German secretary to make. Crittendon had briefed her about the tunnels that went all over – or rather under – the camp, and as far as she remembered, one of them had its entrance right in the guest quarters. So she went back, taking a good look at her temporary home. Where to start searching? In the wardrobe? Under the bed? Finally, it occurred to her to raise a corner of the carpet, and there it was… a plain rectangle cut neatly into the wooden floor. Fenella raised the trapdoor, climbing down.

It was dark and rather cool down there, and slightly spooky all alone. Once more she wished for Crittendon to be near… he hadn't been _at all_ frightened in that dark forest when they'd been waiting for Hogan's men to fetch them! Holding her arms outstretched to feel for the walls, she finally reached a section where several lamps were burning – electrical ones, just like Kinch had in the radio room –, showing her a ladder leading up to a closed exit. Muffled voices could be heard from above. About to climb up, she hesitated. Those were the prisoners talking – even through the layer of dirt and wooden beams, she recognized Newkirk's Cockney accent – and she might as well fulfill her mission and eavesdrop for a while. Even though she couldn't really imagine the handsome Hogan to be a traitor, Crittendon seemed to think so, and he would know better than her… She stepped onto the ladder and climbed as high as she could without hitting her head on the trapdoor.

"Blimey, Carter! Get a move on, will you?"

"I need time to think! This is very complicated." It was the young American speaking, the one whom she'd put down as a bit shy, based on the fact that he'd been about the only one so far who hadn't asked her to a) kiss him, b) marry him, or c) do something rather unspeakable in between.

"It's bloody not! You 'ave nothing but one lousy king! Take three cards… 'ere."

"Thanks!" Then, after a beat: "Hey, how do you know what cards I have?"

The cuckling from above clearly must have belonged to Kinch.

"You're cheating! That's why you're always winning!"

"Me? Never! I may not be an officer, but I still am a gentleman!"

Kinch again: "Come on, Peter, you're not fooling anyone."

"What's that supposed to mean?" The Englishman tried to sound hurt. "You're just jealous 'cause _Fenella_ thinks I'm a gentleman."

"Well, she won't once I tell her that you cheat!"

"Stop it, the pair of you! You know", Kinch went on, "it's been almost ten minutes without anyone mentioning her name. Don't you have anything else on your minds?"

Newkirk seemed to be considering this. "'Course I do, mate… I'm thinkin' about bloody cleaning Klink's bloody office, an' bloody playin' poker with ol' Schultz… come on, Kinch, what _is_ there to think of apart from 'er? The bleedin' radio?"

"You know, Peter, no gentleman would ever manage that many swearwords in a single sentence."

"Oh, you bloody –"

"He's right, Newkirk."

"Anyway", Kinch continued, "just you be careful around her. Remember what the Colonel said… no telling her and Crittendon about Hochstetter, no matter what. I don't think they've guessed that he was here to meet with us, but we have to very careful now."

"What do I look like, a bloody old chatterbox?"

"Not unless you put that wig on."

"Oh, shut up!"

Fenella had to cling to the ladder with both hands, suddenly feeling dizzy. So it was true – Colonel Hogan was working with that little Gestapo agent, and his men knew of it! They were all traitors – how _could_ they even think of betraying Britain and her Allies in times like these? She had to do something about it… she needed proof, a confession… She had a mind to climb right up and tell them that she'd heard everything, but that wouldn't be a good move – 

if they were traitors, they probably kept weapons at the ready, and would shoot her! She didn't even have a pistol with her. Oh, those _horrible_ men – to think how nice they'd been to her, and how flattered she'd been by all the attention! They'd even given her chocolate, the filthy traitors! If only the Colonel were here, he'd know what to do…

But who knew what had happened to him? Maybe that dastardly Hogan had sent him into a trap, and he was at this very moment being tortured by Hochstetter! Of course he would rather die than tell the Gestapo of her and the mission… She had to find out what they'd done to him, quickly!

Coming to that conclusion, she noticed that the voices from above had stopped. She listened hard, but clearly the men were gone, or else sitting in complete silence. Taking a quick decision, Fenella pushed the trapdoor upwards and climbed up into the empty barracks… No. One of the men, Carter, was still here, jumping a little as the bunk went up right beside him.

"Boy… I mean girl… you've frightened me!"

Feeling like Mata Hari, she gave him her best smile. "I hope you don't want me to leave. I've just come for some sensible company. I fact, I've come especially to see you!"

"Me? But miss, I mean Corporal, I'm not sensible company! Newkirk always says I'm daft, and he's probably right, you know."

"Please, call me Fenella… Andrew, isn't it? Or do you prefer Sergeant?" 

She hadn't really expected an answer, but he seemed to give the matter some thought: "I don't think I would, though I don't know 'cause nobody ever calls me Sergeant here, well it would sound pretty strange if they shouted at me and called me Sergeant, and anyway…"

"I think that counts as a no", Fenella decided, sitting down on the bunk beside him. "Andrew… I like the name."

"Do you? My mum did too, only my dad didn't, he wanted to call me Bartholomew after my uncle, but my mum said it's Andrew or nothing, which is good because I wouldn't like to be called Bartholomew –" He was babbling again. Fenella tended to have that effect on young men… older ones too, if Klink was any indication.

"In any case", she repeated, "I like it. And I like you too. A lot."

Slowly, a grin was spreading on Carter's face. "Boy, you mean – you really _like_ me?"

She smiled and nodded, trying to make it suggestive. He certainly seemed to catch on: "Do you mean – should I, like, kiss you?"

"That might be a good start", she agreed.

He promptly leaned closer, an expectant look in his eyes, but she drew back. "Not here!" She gestured at the table where shattered cards and cookies lay, and at the door. "Someone might come in any minute! I want some privacy!"

"We don't have our own rooms here, mi- Fenella."

The man clearly needed some nudging in the right direction. "How about the tunnel? No-one's down there. It's romantic", she added, earning herself a sceptical look.

"Okay", he said doubtfully.

***

Carter secretly believed he was dreaming, but as dreams went, it was about the best one he'd had for a long time, so he had no intention of waking up or complaining. He'd never have considered the tunnels romantic, certainly not when he'd helped dig this one… still, it just went to show. LeBeau probably had known all along, being French. The thought triggered a good word he'd heard some time ago.

"Boy, we're having a real date!" he exclaimed. "A _tete-a-tete_." He mispronounced it in a way that would make LeBeau spit out a long string of unintelligible insults. Luckily, to Fenella, being similarly French-challenged, it sounded perfectly right.

"A _tete-a-tete_", she agreed, taking the first step towards the ladder.

Once they were down, she closed the trapdoor and took his hand, quickly leading him towards the room where they kept the German uniforms and equipment. She made him sit down on the only chair, then, leaning closer, asked him to close his eyes. Thinking she was about to kiss him, Carter complied… but suddenly there was the sound of something being picked up from a shelf. "You can open your eyes now", Fenella said.

He did, and there she was – standing in front of his chair, holding a German pistol and glowering at him, though Carter really couldn't see what he was supposed to have done to her.

"Uh, Fenella…"

"That's Corporal Whealey to you, _Sergeant_!" she spat.

"Corporal Whealey", Carter corrected himself, thinking that she had to be as nuts as Crittendon was – if a lot prettier. "So, you, uh, don't want to kiss me right now?"

Instead of an answer, she aimed the pistol at his heart.

"I guess that means no."

"It most _certainly_ does!"

Confused, Carter asked, trying not to notice the Luger in her hand: "I thought you liked me?"

"How could I?" she shouted. "You, all of you, have betrayed my country!"

"I haven't!" Carter shouted back, without pausing to think about what her words meant. "I'm American, so there! If it's about your country, you should be threatening Newkirk!"

She was staring at him, looking as if any moment she'd start crying – or shooting. Carter didn't like either prospect much.

"Anyway", he continued, "I haven't done anything to any country, except for Germany, but that doesn't count 'cause they're the enemy."

"Don't lie to me! I heard you, you and your friends, talking about Hochstetter!"

"But we didn't… Kinch only told us not to tell you… Anyway, how would you know?"

"Because I was spying on you!" She was waving the Luger around wildly, but she was too far away for Carter to get up and tackle her… even if he'd been sure he could tackle a woman.

"You were spying on _us_?" 

"Yes! That's my job! And don't look so hurt, you're a _traitor_, for Christ's sake!"

"I'm not… Look", Carter said, trying to be reasonable in the presence of the clearly mad Englishwoman. "Don't shoot me. Let me fetch the Colonel, and he'll explain everything."

"Do you think I'm stupid?"

"Well, no", Carter said. _Crazy, yes. Very much so_. He wished he had a smoke bomb handy, or anything else to create a distraction… Newkirk, for instance, would be welcome.

"I don't want to see that traitor Hogan! Tell me – where did he send Colonel Crittendon? To the Gestapo?"

"No…"

"Is your 'underground agent' torturing him right now?"

"I don't think so – she's only an old lady." He could clearly see that Fenella didn't believe a word, even though it was the truth. He'd never had any luck talking himself out of trouble. If only the Colonel were here…

Suddenly, they both heard a noise – Carter knew right away that it was just a rat scurrying through the corridor, but it made Fenella turn her head. Putting any notions of gallantry aside, he threw himself forward, making both of them tumble to the ground and landing right on top of her. The realization had him blush and try to back away, but not before his survival instinct kicked in, allowing him to wrestle the gun from her hand. He got to his feet and hurriedly put a few steps between them. "Sorry, miss… Fenella… Corporal. I hope I haven't hurt you!"

"Don't shoot me", she whispered, apparently not daring to move.

Carter was honestly surprised. "Me? I've never shot anyone! Well, not since I was a bombardier anyway. I've blown up a few people, but they were all Nazis and the Colonel said – Won't you get up, miss? Are you hurt?" She shook her head, slowly getting to her feet. "Have a seat", Carter offered, finally remembering his manners and also to put the gun away.

"You really don't want to shoot me", she said slowly. "So… does that mean you're not a traitor?"

Carter felt on familiar territory now. That was, after all, what he'd been trying to tell her all along… then again, he'd grown accustomed to people not really listening to what he was saying. "We're spies, but we're on our side", he repeated. "Yours, I mean."

"But Kinch said that Hochstetter was meeting with Hogan and…"

Finally, Carter realized what she meant. He hesitated. No-one was to tell her anything about Hochstetter, but if she already knew… and Kinch would be pretty furious to be the one to have told her! "Hochstetter thinks we're on his side, but we're not. We're just pretending so that he…" He paused. "I can't tell you", he said, decidedly. "You'll have to ask the Colonel. You'll just have to trust me." He didn't really expect an answer to that, not with the way she was staring at him.

"I do", she suddenly whispered.

"That's… good", he replied, too surprised to say anything else.

"You're no traitor. You can't be." Slowly, she got up from the chair, straightening her skirt and blouse. "I'm very sorry for… for all that."

So she wasn't really crazy. It had just been a misunderstanding. Carter felt relieved. "Boy, you had me pretty frightened."

"You didn't look it", she said, smiling hesitantly. "You're as brave as Colonel Crittendon is."

"Gee, thanks." Carter couldn't help feeling vaguely insulted, and showing it.

"And you're handsome, too."

"Don't tell me I'm as handsome as Crittendon is."

"No." Her smile was getting brighter. "No, you don't have that stupid mustache – I do wish English officers didn't have to grow one!"

She ventured a step towards him. Carter backed away.

"You must be terribly mad at me!"

_No, I'm not_. To his own surprise, Carter found that he wasn't… and not because she was the prettiest woman he'd seen for a year, ever since Maddie had gone back to Norway.

"I'm not."

"Do you trust me?"

Carter couldn't help glancing at the Luger that lay on its shelf, securely out of reach.

"Without a pistol? I guess I do."

"Close your eyes, then."

She took another step, coming closer. This time, though, Carter didn't follow the order and instead was squinting between half-closed eyelids… at least, until she kissed him.

So, what do you think? Reviews are, as always, appreciated. I promise that's nearly the last of the romance, in any case.


	9. The Conspirators

Do I still have any readers left? I hope so, 'cause here's another instalment for you…

**9 – The Conspirators**

"All right", Hogan said, leaning against a wall of his office. "What we need to do now is –" He paused, glancing around and mentally counting faces. "Where's Carter?"

"Down in the tunnels, I guess", Newkirk replied, adding darkly: "Prob'ly blowing things up."

"He may be checking on his latest experiment", Kinch explained, throwing the Englishman a warning glance. "You know, the smelly green stuff."

"All right." Hogan had requested his entire staff's presence, but knew better than to prevent Carter from doing whatever he deemed necessary in his lab. The scorched remains of Tunnel 4 still served as a warning sign to those who would interfere with the little chemist's field of expertise. "Now, Hochstetter wanted us to carry out another mission tomorrow night, but I was able to convince him that leaving the camp would not be feasible."

"Which, of course, means that we'll be leaving the camp", Kinch added with a grin.

"Exactly. At least, I will."

As he paused, a murmur arose among the assembled prisoners.

"Colonel –"

"You bloody can't –"

"Newkirk?"

"Beggin' the Colonel's pardon", the Englishman added quickly, "but you really shouldn't go alone… that's bloody stupid, that is!"

"Mind your language, Corporal!" Kinch warned immediately.

Hogan, who'd long since grown accustomed to ignoring most of the adjectives in Newkirk's speech, crossed his arms in front of his chest. "Is it, Corporal? I don't see why. We still don't know how much our man has told Hochstetter, so until we have proof to the contrary, the only confirmed underground agent here is me. If our trap works, it's likely that Hochstetter will be around personally this time. I really don't want him to see any of you in action."

"It's still bloody stupid", Newkirk muttered. "If Hochstetter sees _you_, he'll know you're double-crossing 'im."

"_Oui_", LeBeau agreed, standing next to him. "Permission to come with you, _mon Colonel_! I will watch your back and Hochstetter will not see me."

Hogan spread out his hands. "Look, guys, I appreciate your concern, but I'm perfectly able to take care of myself. I'm not planning on blowing anything up… just playing a little game of spot-the-Gestapo. I promise to come back in one piece."

"You had better, _mon Colonel_, or I'll never cook you another cheeseburger ever again."

"Now, about Hochstetter", Hogan went on. "He'll probably be here again within the next few days. No-one's to draw any attention to themselves, understood? You can bet he's trying to find out which of you are just duped innocents and which", he smirked, "are traitors like me."

"I'd bloody like to show him –"

Whatever Newkirk wanted to do went unsaid, at least for the moment. The door to the main barracks flew open and in barged Colonel Crittendon, brandishing a pistol in one hand and the unsheated blade of his swagger stick in the other. Everyone was staring.

"There you are, the nest full of cuckoo's eggs!" Crittendon announced with a flourish, seemingly mistaking Hogan's sigh for a cry of fear. He was waving both pistol and blade wildly. LeBeau, who stood nearest the door, hurriedly backed away after almost having his face sliced. 

"Crittendon, what –"

"Don't try to fool me, Hogan! I know you're a traitor! Didn't think I'd catch on about your little alliance, did you? You and Major Hoch- what's the chap's name again, Hochstapler?"

"Hoch_stetter_", Hogan corrected, only to suddenly find the British Colonel advancing on him.

"There!" Crittendon cried, triumphantly. "You confess! You might have fooled everyone –"

Hogan was slowly backing up against the wall, trying to get as much empty air as possible between his throat and Crittendon's blade.

"—but not old Rodney! Why, I'm not a trained spy for nothing!"

He was still advancing while speaking, until Hogan found himself backed into a corner. The other men were standing nearby, not daring to attack Crittendon for fear of him accidentally slicing their Colonel's throat.

"Crittendon, listen –" Hogan tried again.

"Now I can tell you why I came here, old fellow! I was sent to discover the cuckoo in the Allied nest, and look what I've found – a whole cuckoo clock, you might say! You should all be ashamed of yourselves – betraying glorious Britain and her Allies – using poor defenseless old women –"

"COLONEL! SHUT UP AND LISTEN! THAT'S AN ORDER!"

***

Crittendon paused in mid-rant and instinctively stepped backwards, hoping to get away from the furious American. By the time he realized that he outranked Hogan and didn't have to obey any orders, Newkirk and Kinch had already fallen upon him and were wrestling the weapons out of his grasp. He fought bravely, but eventually had to subside. The chaps were jolly bad sports, too – not only that they'd attacked him two against one, something _no_ gentleman would _ever_ consider, they also fought dirty and against the rules: Why, _everyone_ at Fort Westing knew that the area below the belt was completely taboo! 

***

"What shall we do with him, Colonel?" Kinch asked, pushing the now unarmed Crittendon towards Hogan, who was rubbing his neck where the blade had touched it.

"Whatever it is, Guv'nor… Request permission to do it!" Newkirk added threateningly.

***

Crittendon straightened himself, trying in vain to shove the enlisted men's hands away from his arms. The negro especially had a grip like a pair of tweezers. Hogan, meanwhile, was collecting from his men the pistol and the blade, both of which had fallen to the floor. One look into the traitor's face and Crittendon knew he was going to die. He only wished he'd have a chance to re-curl his mustache and straighten his uniform. Would they permit him a last meal, a last cigarette or some other wish? "Colonel Hogan", he said with all the dignity he could muster. "I repeat what I've been saying – you should be ashamed of yourselves. You may kill me, but I will die proudly, as a loyal officer of His Majesty."

Hogan, looking rather disgusted with the fine speech, bent to pick up the swagger stick's sheat, put the parts back together and held them out for Crittendon to take, while keeping the pistol. "Put that thing away before anyone gets hurt. – Kinch, Newkirk, let him go."

"Guv'nor –"

"That's an order, Corporal", Hogan added, eyes still fixed on Crittendon.

Rather unwillingly, the enlisted men stepped back, but still kept close enough to prevent another attack on their Colonel. Crittendon gingerly tucked the swagger stick under his arm and met Hogan's gaze, trying to suppress the ridiculous urge to justify himself in front of the American.

"Now, Crittendon, let's talk." Hogan suddenly found that he was waving the pistol around, just as Crittendon had done. He quickly threw it onto his bunk. "We are not traitors, though you are right about one thing. There _is_ a cuckoo in the nest. We've been pretending to work with Hochstetter to find out who it is, and what he's told the Gestapo."

"Tell me, Hogan, why should I believe you?"

"Because if we were traitors, we'd have shot you!" LeBeau spat from behind Crittendon's back.

"Good point, my fellow, good point." Finally, Crittendon felt himself secure enough to straighten his uniform and run his fingers through hair and mustache. "Jolly well", he said when he was finished. "So, now that we've established we're all friends, kindly give me back my pistol, Hogan. – Oh, and of course I've been aware all the time that you cannot order me around. Since I can see you've been under a lot of pressure, old chap, I shall overlook this little act of insubordination."

"I'll be eternally grateful", Hogan said dispassionatly.

"As you should be, my dear fellow." Crittendon raised a finger in warning. "You're rather lucky _I'm_ the one London sent. Most other officers would take offense at being attacked for no reason, remember that!"

"No reason? Why, you've bloody –"

"Anyway", Hogan said loudly, effectively drowning out Newkirk's voice, "about the poor defenseless women you mentioned… I take it you've met our agent?"

"Yes. A lady _of sterling worth_, if I may say so." No-one laughed at what Crittendon couldn't help considering a rather clever pun. "She's accepted your assignment, though I –" Crittendon paused, feeling that even though he didn't have to justify himself in front of the younger officer, said officer might have a right to know, in the light of recent events, about certain details of the visit.

"Though you –" Hogan prompted.

"Well, you see, old chap, I really had no choice but to consider you a traitor, and so I… gave her fair warning, like any gentleman would have done."

"You _told_ her you thought I was a traitor? Have you told anyone _else_? Maybe sold the news to a paper or two?"

"Now", Crittendon drew himself up, feeling hurt, "there's really no need to act as if I was a gossipmonger, dear fellow, just because of an honest mistake that anyone could have made."

"_… anyone with a cabbage for a brain_", he almost believed to hear someone mutter behind his back, but instantly dismissed the suspicion – surely even Hogan's men would never talk that way to a superior officer!

"You'll have to agree, old chap, that you'd have done the same in my situation."

"Definitely not", Hogan had the gall to reply, proving once again that he'd never be a proper gentleman. Still, Crittendon, having the vague feeling that his was not the best position for an argument at the moment, went on as if nothing had been said. "Of course, now that we've established we're all on the same side, I'll be happy to help in any way I can."

"Thank you, but –" Hogan started, then suddenly paused. "Actually, there is something – a mission that would require a man just like you!"

"Another bridge to blow up? Thought you fellows would have run out of them by now."

"The Germans insist on re-building them, just to keep us busy", Hogan replied.

"You can count on me, old chap."

"This mission is dangerous", Hogan warned him.

"Not too dangerous for a trained commando, I should think!"

"_… but much too dangerous for _you", the voice behind his back could be heard again, its French accent clearly notable this time. Could it be, Crittendon considered, that he was slowly going insane? Hallucinations were not uncommon among those that spent their lives on war's glorious battlefield, tasting danger with every breath they took…

"If you're not careful, you might run into –" Hogan paused. "You've never met Hochstetter, have you? Well, he's sort of hard to miss. Short guy, oily hair –"

"— sees underground agents lurking behind every corner –"

"—shouting all the time –"

Newkirk cleared his throat. "The Gestapo does not accept weakness!" he suddenly cried in a thick German accent. "The Gestapo does not accept failure! I will have your entire family sent to the Russian Front!"

"Yeah, that's him all right", Hogan said fondly.

"Kliiinnnk! You are a disgrace to the Luftwaffe! You are a –"

"_Thank you_, Newkirk. We get the picture."

The Englishman looked hurt: "But sir, I wasn't even halfway through my famous 'We'll see what Berlin thinks of the happenings in your camp' speech!"

So, what do you think? Three more chapters to go… Reviews are, as always, appreciated.


	10. The Concert

_This chapter is dedicated to Linda, for taking up my challenge and for making writing this story so rewarding. Here's your Casanova Klink – be very afraid! :-)_

**10 – The Concert**

Late at night, a familiar figure clad in an American pilot's bomber jacket and cap was slowly making his way through the forests surrounding Stalag 13, keeping on a track that parelleled the Hammelburg road. It was cold and dark, and the Colonel couldn't help thinking longingly of the warm stove in Barracks 2, where there'd probably be poker games with lots of hot coffee by now. Still, a man had to do what a man had to do…

He'd almost reached Hammelburg and, taking some moments to listen for approaching cars, made his way through the underbrush towards the road, where he paused again. No sounds could be heard apart from those of the forest – the rustlings and tweakings of twigs in the breeze. This last part of the road went straight up to the village, and any car should be seen by its headlights from a mile off. Satisfied that no-one was coming, he stepped out from between the trees and quickly set off towards the village. 

Keeping on the road for the last part of the way was much quicker than creeping through the forest; it also had the additional advantage that no-one would honestly believe an escaped prisoner to arrive from that direction. He stuffed his hands into the deep pockets of the leather jacket, thankful for its warmth. No sense wearing civilian clothes, really – with the curfew imposed on Hammelburg, any man walking the road at night would be considered suspicious, no matter what he was wearing; and then there was the very real chance of being shot as a spy – not that he could be sure that the uniform would offer too much protection in that regard. He kept up a brisk stride, hoping to reach the freight train station soon, even if there might be Gestapo agents around. At least the buildings would offer some hiding places to a careful man…

***

Back at Stalag 13, Schultz had already finished his evening round of barging into every barracks, shouting "_Licht aus! Licht aus_!" as if the prisoners still needed telling the rules after almost three years. With a reproachful look, Newkirk had leaned over from his bunk to switch the light off, only to switch it on again exactly thirty seconds later… they'd timed how long it took for Schultz to turn the next corner, and were hardly ever caught. Now, the Englishman was sitting by the stove in his nightshirt and uniform jacket, playing a rather aimless round of poker with LeBeau and Olsen, while Kinch was reading and Carter was staring out of the window. None of them felt like sleeping. It was just one of those nights.

"D'you really think Hochstetter'll be there?" Olsen asked doubtfully, glancing at his cards and folding, like LeBeau had done right before. Newkirk started dealing another round, without even bothering to shuffle. No-one was keeping score.

"If he has heard about the mission, he will." LeBeau answered confidently, before looking down at his cards in disgust.

"Yeah, that's what I mean – _if_ he's heard of it."

Kinch looked up from his book. "Let's hope he has – it's pretty much our last chance."

"I know! But hey, I just can't believe _this_ is our cuckoo."

"Stranger things have happened." Kinch shrugged.

"Sure, mate. Like Carter getting a girl!" Without pausing in his dealing, Newkirk flicked a single card towards the Sergeant at the window. It happened to be the Ace of Hearts. The other men were laughing quietly, taking care not to draw any guards near.

The card hit the back of Carter's jacket and gently floated to the floor, without him even turning around. Across the compound, the strains – unfortunately, a more than accurrate description – of Klink's private violin concert for his secretary could be heard. The music should have been romantic, but actually it sounded more like the background score of a horror movie. In Klink's hands, Beethoven was a deadly weapon.

"You know, he might get shot tonight", Olsen said, not really expecting an answer.

"Who cares?" 

LeBeau shrugged, noting that everyone (except Carter) was staring at him. "Well, I don't", he said defiantly. "Not with the way he's been treating us. If Hochstetter gets him, I'll just shout… _Au revoir_, Colonel!"

"You know what they say: Who needs enemies if he's got Allies?" Unnoticed by them, Hogan had left his office, dressing-gown wrapped around his pyjamas. LeBeau paused upon seeing his commanding officer. Hogan went to the stove, grabbing a nearby cup and pouring himself some coffee. "Anyway", he said into the sudden silence. "He won't get shot. Hochstetter would never shoot me if he finally had proof of my activities, he'd try to catch me alive. And once they find out that he's not me, they'll have to determine just who he is, then. We'll spring him from their prison while they're busy."

"Do we 'ave to?"

"Yes, Corporal, and unless you want to volunteer for it, I'd advise you to shut up."

"Me? I'm not sayin' anything."

***

The man in the bomber jacket curled his mustache, proudly taking a stance in in front of the signpost where he'd picked up a tightly-wrapped package that had been hidden behind a rock, just as Hogan'd said it would. It was a shame, really, that no-one in Hammelburg was awake to take a good last look at their freight train station – soon, nothing would be left of it but smoking ashes, curtesy to Britain's most fearsome one-man commando team: Colonel Crittendon, one of the RAF's finest.

He weighed the package in his hands. It was neither big nor heavy, but as Hogan had assured him, the explosives in it should be more than powerful enough to do the job. Good organisation, Crittendon had to admit… Of course, if Hogan and his men could break out of prison to plant packages behind signposts, they could also get out to do the actual blowing-up. Still, he wouldn't blame the fellow for grabbing the chance to let someone else do the dangerous work! After all, Hogan was a mere pilot, without any commando training. Besides, imprisonment could get even to the best of chaps. Not everyone had the strenght of mind to keep his courage behind barbed wire fences! Why, just because Jerry had never managed to frigthen Colonel Rodney L. Crittendon, it didn't mean that everyone else was immune! It was not hard to notice Hogan shivering, the poor chap, whenever the name of Hochstetter was mentioned. Of course, he'd refrained from saying any of this in front of Hogan's men… no sense in showing the fellow up, it would be bad for morale, and besides, officers had to prevent each other from losing face just out of curtesy. He was sure Hogan had noticed his restraint and was silently grateful, even if the man hadn't thanked him for it.

***

Back in the barracks, Hogan was looking at his watch: "All right, guys… time to break up the party." He went over to the door, through which the tortured strains of classical music could still be heard. Klink had switched over to Mozart. It was probably just as well, Hogan mused, that all of the great classical composers were long dead. "Olsen?"

"All clear", the lookout at the window answered. Hogan opened the door and quickly made his way across the compound.

***

The Hammelburg freight train station wasn't exactly the most important installation in the area, being used mainly to transport supplies of stale bread, soap, and the occasional waggonload of fresh prisoners to Stalag 13. No attempt had ever been made to attack it. Still, with the local underground wreaking havoc at every place that could even remotely be considered a military target, a guard of three soldiers had been permanently stationed there. Their _Hauptmann_ was from Hammelburg and, after discovering the schedule his superiors used for their 'surprise' check-ups, had taken to spending most of his watch with his girlfriend. His men didn't complain – partly because you didn't second-guess a superior (even if you _had_ gone to school with him and remembered the hidings his mum had given him, in front of the entire neighbourhood, for not doing his chores), and partly because the girlfriend had two very attractive sisters who'd taken to accompanying her.

Tonight, however, all hopes of a triple rendez-vous had gone down the drain with the arrival of a black Gestapo car. The guards had just managed to send Berta, Britta, and Binchen home unnoticed, before the newcomers' leader had called them to attention and started a long lecture on their lack of watchfulness… and he hadn't even _seen_ the cards and dice in the watch room, or the strapless bra Britta had left behind upon her hurried departure. Eyes straight, the Hauptmann was listening to the Gestapo agent jabbering on about how some underground agents seemed to have targeted the station. He didn't really mind, but he still grabbed his rifle after the man had finished: Anyone who considered this war more important than kissing Berta was going to pay.

***

The evening was shaping up to be a success, Klink decided. Now that the lovely Friederike had seen her employer's soft and sentimental side… the pussycat inside the tiger, so to speak of… she'd certainly realize that no man could possibly offer her anything better. A few more light pieces to set the mood… _Eine kleine Nachtmusik_ for the grande finale… and then, who knew where the evening might end? (Just in case it should be his bedroom, Klink had already arranged for a bottle of champagne to be cooled.) He was pouring all his hopes and feelings into the performance, his glance alternating between the music sheet and Friederike's encouraging smile, when suddenly the door flew open and in stormed a man Klink had never seen before.

"Kommandant! Are you hurt?"

Klink, startled into nearly dropping his violin, took some seconds to realize who the intruder was. Of course, only Hogan would ever barge in like that! The man was almost unrecognisable in his dressing-gown, with a pair of bright red pyjama legs sticking out underneath. 

"Hogan! What do you think you are doing in my private quarters?"

Hogan was staring at him, looking as if Klink had just turned into Hitler in front of his very eyes. "But Kommandant… I thought the Gestapo had come to arrest you!"

"The Gestapo?" Immediately, Klink's eyes were searching the room, half-expecting Hochstetter to jump out from behind the curtains, shouting 'Surprise!'. "But why… where would you get that idea?"

"I thought… I was in bed, and then the wailing started, like someone being horribly tortured …"

It took Klink's brain a few seconds to catch up with the meaning of these words. Then: "Hogan! Out! Now! And you'll see me about this tomorrow!"

Instantly, a hurt expression appeared on the American's face. "I was only trying to help…"

"I don't need your help! Out, I said! You're no sight for a lady anyway, dressed like that", Klink added with some relish.

Hogan turned on his heels, feigning surprise upon seeing that Klink had a guest. "The lovely Fraulein Friederike!" he exclaimed, glancing from her to Klink still holding the violin, then to the stacks of music sheets the Kommandant had prepared for his romantic evening. Next to Klink, 'Friederike' was smiling gracefully and pretending to play with her earrings, while trying to pull what a brighter man might have recognised as little cotton plugs out of her ears.

"Now I understand!" the American went on. "You were entertaining the lady with your music, and I was ignorant enough to think… so sorry, Kommandant! I guess I'd better leave now." He was already halfway out the door as he finished the sentence.

"_Good night_, Hogan", Klink said pointedly, preparing to shut the door behind the insolent prisoner – just as Hogan chose to turn around.

"Oh, and Kommandant?"

"What is is now?"

"Could you maybe gag Mr Mozart so we don't have to listen to his screaming?" He was out the door before Klink had a chance to open his mouth.

***

Silently and gracefully like a jungle cat, Crittendon was making his way towards the freight train station building… provided there _were_ tigers with mustaches and ill-fitting borrowed clothes that tended to run into carelessly placed rocks a lot. It was just as well he couldn't see himself. Still, he'd managed to avoid the guards so far and was slowly creeping towards the railway tracks, where he planned on setting his bomb. 

His neck felt oddly naked without his signature scarf… which he considered his 'lucky' scarf, though he'd never admit it, certainly not to the insolent American Colonel. Why, he'd been wearing it when through a series of misunderstandings he'd found himself in Klink's car, both of them believing each other to be a dangerous Nazi scientist – and when their respective identities had been discovered, Crittendon had made his escape into the woods without so much as a scratch, despite Klink and two other Germans firing at him from close distance! Of course, he'd been armed himself, but only with a crossbow… jolly stupid idea of Hogan's, that! To think that such a cumbersome weapon would be better for an assassination than, say, a good old British pistol! Crittendon couldn't believe that he'd ever agreed to it, but that Hogan chap could be very convincing when he wanted to, one had to give him that.

It was jolly well he'd been sent this time, Crittendon continued in his musings. Hogan's chaps might be all right within their own camp, but they lacked the stealth of trained commandoes like himself… He finished the thought just in time to stumble over a loose brick and narrowly avoid falling into a suddenly appearing hole in the ground. Why, the fellow who'd built this place had been most unaccomodating, not at all like the fine folks at Fort Westing! He clearly remembered the time at commando camp when he'd had the misfortune to stumble into what had, then, appeared to be a dry well. Of course, the chaps who'd been assigned enemy status had been most helpful – pulling him out, hosing him down until the stench from the sewer was barely noticably, and then organising him dry clothes and a cup of tea. No-one'd made any more "Stinky Rodney" references than were necessary, too… Jolly good sports the chaps had been (later, he'd met most of them at Stalag 16). He couldn't help the suspicion that the Jerries would behave a bit differently.

Hiding behind the only waggon on the tracks – which, judging by the rust on it, had once belonged to the _Kaiser_ –, Crittendon reached his target and crouched down to set the bomb's timer. Suddenly, his commando-trained senses detected another presence. He looked up, to find a man standing a mere fourty feet or so away, levelling a Luger right at his bomber jacket. In the dark, the only thing visible was the Gestapo man's red armband. "How good of you to come, Colonel", he said in a voice laden with sarcasm.

Crittendon's brain knew how this was supposed to go: _Set the timer. He'll shoot you, but not before you finish, dying a hero's death_ –

– his legs, however, seemingly hadn't even _heard_ of An Officer's Duty In Front Of The Enemy. Before he himself realized it, Crittendon was up and running, leaving both bomb and shouting Gestapo agent behind.

It wasn't flying, he rationalized, pausing for breath already halfway back to Stalag 13. It was simply common sense. Had to think of his responsibility, didn't he? The RAF couldn't bear losing its finest officer. Had to keep in mind the good of home country and mission… Old Sands would be jolly embarrassed if he'd sent Crittendon to his death… couldn't do that to the chap… besides, there was no cause for such a hurry regarding the station. Blowing it up tomorrow would do just as fine. In the meantime, it was his duty to proceed back to the camp, for… regrouping.

Making himself stand at attention, Crittendon looked around, counted, found that all of his commandoes (1, including himself) were here, had them re-group, and slowly marched them back towards Stalag 13.

***

"You know, we may have missed one thing - what happens if he succeeds?" 

"Who, Crittendon?" LeBeau was looking at Olsen with disgust; though whether because of the American's apparent faith in Crittendon, or because he was busy smearing chocolate cookies with peanut cream for a midnight snack, was hard to tell.

"Well, memightmaveamuckyma- chance", Olsen replied with his mouth full.

The others were contemplating this. "It wouldn't be so bad", Carter said finally. "I mean, it's a _German_ station, right? We're allowed to attack it!"

"Carter, mate?" Newkirk, who'd gone to bed still wearing his cap, was looking down from the top bunk. "If that's so, why d'you think the Guv'nor hasn't told us to blow it up by now?"

"Dunno." The young American shrugged. "Maybe he forgot."

"Or maybe it's the only freight train station anywhere near, and if we blew it up, where would we get our bloody Red Cross packages from?"

Suddenly, LeBeau seemed concerned. "_Cet idiot_ mustn't… I have ordered a few tins of _des_ lovely _escargots_! They'll come with the next waggonload!"

"_Esca_-what?"

"Snails", Kinch translated for Carter, while an exaggerated gagging noise could be heard from the general direction of Newkirk's bunk, followed by: "Let's just 'ope Crittendon'll blow your bloody slimy worms up!"

"Ha!" LeBeau shouted, prompting instant "sshh!"ing noises from everyone else. "Just you see if you get any, talking like that!"

"I'd rather eat… _bouillabaisse_!" Newkirk finished naming the most disgusting food he could think of; however it didn't seem to make that much of an impression on the French chef.

"Hold it, guys", Hogan warned, just as the familiar scratching sound from Kinch's bunk was heard. Soon, the black radioman climbed out of the tunnels, followed by Crittendon. Stiffly, the Englishman took off Hogan's jacket and cap and held them out for the American to take.

"So, have you met our old friend?"

Crittendon nodded. "I have, my fellow – indeed, I may say that it was just my luck that enabled me to escape with my life… and my commando training, of course!" he added quickly.

"_Hochstetter must be losing his touch_", came a mutter from the general direction of LeBeau. Naturally, Crittendon ignored it.

"Did you blow the station up, boy… I mean, Colonel?" Carter asked, looking half-excited, half-worried (quite an interesting combination, really). Instead of answering, Crittendon stood up straighter and, clearly stalling now, ripped of a smart salute in Hogan's direction. Hogan, who'd been looking somewhat apprehensive, relaxed.

"Jolly good question, my fellow. Glad you asked. I may say that I've done my best, as any officer would – but I'm afraid, Hogan, old chap" he went on, completely ignoring Carter, "that Jerry's been a bit too smart for us this time. Why, one of these Gestapo fellows – your friend Hochstetter, I should think – tried to blow a hole right through my chest! Would have ruined your jacket, of course."

"So the station's still standing", Hogan summarized. "Good. Where's the dynamite?"

"I'm afraid I left it, old chap… was rather in a hurry, you see. However", Crittendon went on, straightening, "of course I volunteer for the next mission. I'll go tomorrow! That station won't see another day."

"I'm afraid it will", Hogan replied. "We need it. You see, we get all our supplies that way."

***

Crittendon was, admittedly, puzzled. Surely the fellow wasn't going a bit mad, was he? First blowing things up, then claiming he needed them – it wouldn't do to have a crazy Papa Bear! London should definitely hear about this.

"But why –"

"You see, Colonel", Hogan said, casually laying an arm around Crittendon's shoulders, who instinctively stiffened and tried to back away. "We never intended to blow up the station. We just wanted Hochstetter to believe it, and to be sure he did."

Crittendon was feeling insulted. Surely the chaps could have trusted him with that plan – not that it was much of a plan; he might have suggested a much better one, given the chance! Why, just because he'd been ready to have them all shipped to London and court-martialed as traitors, there was no need for them to keep any secrets from him! "You should have told me, old fellow. If I'd blown the station up, you'd be in quite a fix now."

"Oh, as for that, I knew I could rely on your special talent", Hogan said.

"I'm afraid you've got me a bit stumped here, old chap."

"You see", Hogan went on, still smiling amiably, "so far you've bungled every single mission you've been sent on. Therefore, I've had some faith in the chance that you'd bungle this one, too."

What do you think? Two more chapters to go… reviews are, of course, appreciated!


	11. The Cuckoo

**11 – The Cuckoo**

At noon, most the prisoners were enjoying a break in between work details. Hogan was idly supervising Newkirk and Olsen, who continued to sweep the yard… though at the pace they were going, General Patton's tanks could be expected to arrive before they'd be finished. Carter, LeBeau and Kinch were participating in a game of throw-the-ball-at-the-_Kommandantur_-sign (bonus point were awarded for smashing Klink's window and managing to not get caught). Schultz, who was wolfing down his third bowl of _Krautsuppe_ with his rifle leaning against the barracks wall, didn't even notice the approaching farmer's cart until most of the prisoners had set off towards the gate.

"_Nein nein nein_! You stay here! You come back!" he shouted, then hesitated as the vague realization dawned that, in order to pick up his rifle, he'd have to drop either the bowl or the spoon. He solved the problem by quickly shoveling the rest of the soup into his mouth, but he had barely caught hold of his weapon when the prisoners' ball hit him square in the stomach, from where it bounced off without doing any damage.

"Sorry, Schultzie!" Kinch was jogging towards him, looking mildly interested by the commotion at the gates. Carter and LeBeau were following him. "It's that farmer from over the hill again", the young American announced, craning his neck. "Hey, looks like he's brought some apples! We could do with them!" He set off without waiting for a reply.

LeBeau and Kinch were looking at each other, both of them trying to suppress a grin: It really wasn't hard to see what was going on in Schultz's brain… _Apples_ equaled _apple strudle cooked by LeBeau_, and that meant a certain Sergeant would not only have the gate opened in no time, but also would be very busy for the next ten minutes, trying to put the best of the sweet, wrinkled winter apples aside for himself. The two prisoners were flanking Schultz as he hurried, with surprising speed, towards the gate, completely ignoring the fact that the farmer – a confirmed bachelor – had brought his bent, elderly 'wife' with with him.

***

"Good morning, Mrs Sterling", Hogan said politely, a screen of prisoners (he'd selected the tallest for this assignment) shielding him and the woman from Schultz' less than watchful glance. "How good of you to come." Offering her his arm, he led her away from the crowd, behind the nearest barracks where they could not be spotted from the gate.

"There's no time for pleasantries", she said, after a quick look around to make sure they were alone. "I have the information you wanted, Robert… but I'm afraid you won't like it. My dear boy… I don't know how to say it, but I went to take a walk only yesterday, and would you believe it? The freight train station seemed full of Gestapo agents!"

"No!" Hogan exclaimed, feigning shocked surprise. "But that… that means they must know what we're planning!"

"Indeed, my dear boy. I'm afraid, Robert, there must be a traitor somewhere in our organisation."

Leaning against the barracks wall, Hogan sighed. "Yes. I know."

"You do?" She gave a nervous little laugh. "Of course you would, clever as you are… and here I was, silly old me, wondering how you'd take the news. Robert, I think I know who it is."

"Who?" he asked, all attention.

"The man you sent me, Crittendon… he was behaving very suspiciously. I – I know, Robert, he's a Colonel like you, but still… he knew about the freight train station, he was the only one who did, and…"

"He wasn't the only one."

Another nervous little laugh: "Well, obviously me and you did, too, but –" She fell silent upon seeing the expression on his face. Then:

"Robert, you don't mean… believe me, this man Crittendon must not be trusted!"

"I don't like Crittendon much", Hogan admitted, "but I'd trust him more than I'd trust you. He arrived only a week ago - he didn't have a chance to let slip any of the little secrets Hochstetter knows, even if he'd been aware of half of them. _You_ are the cuckoo in the Allied nest, Mrs Sterling. You told the Gestapo what we were up to, and when Hochstetter saw me snooping around and knew that _I _knew, you tried to blame old Rodney. By the way", he added, "did you know that Allied High think _I_'m a traitor? I wouldn't be surprised if they had that little tidbit of information from you."

She was staring at him as if in shock. "How", she asked, slowly and carefully, when he was pausing for breath, "would you know exactly what Hochstetter knows, unless you were yourself working for him?"

Hogan just smiled. Some people had remarked that it was his most threatening look.

"You – you –" She took a deep breath and regained her grip on herself. "Well, what are you going to do now, Robert? Will you harm an old woman? I don't think so."

"You're right, ma'am", Hogan said. "I won't harm you. I even have a gift for you…"

"A gift?"

"Yes. A travel voucher, good for one flight to London, no return. You'll have to hurry, though… it's only valid until tomorrow." He leaned back against the barracks wall and started whistling a jaunty tune. Soon, two prisoners came – Americans, by the look of their uniforms – and, after politely greeting her, crouched down on the ground only a few feet from Hogan, dragging their fingers through the mud and suddenly lifting a section of the compound clean away: It was a piece of sackcloth, covered with earth and footprints. Under it was a manhole with a ladder leading into it. The younger of the men jumped down.

"If you'll follow him, Mrs Sterling."

"Robert! You can't send me to London… I beg you…"

"I'm afraid I can, Mrs Sterling. I really must ask you to follow Olsen now. Don't worry, I've even organised you a nice travel companion", Hogan said. "You'll like him. He's a Colonel like me."

After he'd put the cloth cover back, Hogan slowly made his way back to the gate. This particular tunnel would have to be scrapped anyway, but at least it had been put to some use. Most of the crowd had dispersed by the time he came back; the farmer was standing next to his empty cart, looking lost for a reason to stay any longer. Newkirk and Carter were hovering nearby. When they saw Hogan return, they said something to the man, who nodded.

"Colonel Hogan!" Schultz came wheezing towards him, all the pockets of his uniform coat bulging suspiciously. His helmet was not on his head, but under one arm… it was filled with apples. Hogan grabbed one and bit into it.

"Colonel Hogan! Have you seen this man's old mother?"

Hogan looked around. The nearest prisoner happened to be Kinch. "What, Mrs Kinchloe? I believe she's in Detroit!"

"And she's not that old!" Kinch added, pretending to be insulted on her behalf.

"_Nein nein nein_! I mean the farmer!" Schultz gestured towards him, only to find that the man suddenly seemed in a great hurry to get his cart out of the camp.

"Come on, Schultz, are you dreaming? He was alone when he came here! D'you think he'd leave without his mum, if he'd brought her?"

"_Nein nein nein_", Schultz began, but already seemed considerably less sure of what exactly he'd seen. After all, in a prison camp like this, your eyes often were the least trustworthy part of you...

"Really, Schultz", Hogan stepped in, gesturing behind the guard's back for the others to leave. "You seem desperate for female company. We'll get Klink to give you a day's leave."

"Thank you, Colonel Hogan." Still, Schultz didn't seem entirely convinced: "Are you really sure that there was no old woman here?"

Laying one arm around the guard's shoulder, Hogan turned him round so Schultz could supervise the compound. 

"Well, you see", he said. "If she's been here, the ground must have swallowed her."

So, what do you think? Reviews are appreciated!


	12. For Love Of Secrets

**12 – For Love of Secrets**

Major Hochstetter was pacing the Kommandant's small office, irritating Klink who almost regretted that he hadn't offered the uninvited guest a seat.

"Klink! Hogan was out of camp the night before the last, attempting sabotage!"

"What? Major, this is –"

"Do you doubt my word, Klink? I saw him with my own eyes!"

Hogan, who stood  to the side clutching his cap like a good prisoner, was wearing the look of innocent surprise on his face that Klink had learned to thoroughly distrust. The Kommandant had to swallow hard upon hearing Hochstetter's words: On the one hand, the man was clearly mad, and everything he undertook only served to make Klink look bad in Berlin. The very idea of Hogan being a saboteur… the implication that the man could leave the camp whenever he pleased… On the other hand, Klink had learned that it was never wise to doubt a Gestapo man's word, no matter how crazy the person in question might be.

"Two nights ago?" Hogan threw in, looking at Klink as if he remembered something the Kommandant didn't.

"Two nights –" _Of course_! "That cannot be, Major", Klink replied triumphantly, his hand stroking the spike on the helmet he'd snatched from Hogan. "I can guarantee you that he did not leave camp that night!" _Or ever_.

"Too bad I have no confidence in your word, _Colonel_!" Hochstetter, prancing in front of Klink's desk, spat out the rank as if it were an insult. "And neither will Berlin believe in your feeble assurances."

He probably had a point there, much as it galled Klink. Sometimes, he could almost understand the Allies' dislike of his government. The big shots in Berlin were clearly as mad as Hochstetter was… constantly overlooking him when handing out General's stars; sending him envoys on special missions which they then denied all knowledge of; allowing Hochstetter to slip spies into the camp – _his_ camp! –; accusing him of having stolen their gold and God knew what else… If only they'd _see_ what service he was doing to the country by ruling Stalag 13 with a steel fist! Anyone could get himself shot at the Russian Front, but it took a special kind of soldier to guard Allied prisoners as clever and insolent as the ones he'd been handed!

"I don't care what your eyes tell you", Klink retaliated, rising from his seat and thinking that Hochstetter's eyes were no more to be trusted than the rest of the man. "I've personally seen Hogan during the night in question."

"Have you, Klink? And pray tell me, how and why? Were you maybe fraternizing with the enemy?"

_Me! The Iron Eagle, feared by all the prisoners! _"I most certainly wasn't_, Major_", Klink replied, trying to sound dignified and to keep any treacherous thoughts of cognac, chess, and Allied advice on how to best dodge Burkhalter's sister out of his mind. The last, after all, had clearly been within the scope of the rules… you were _allowed_ to use prisoners for doing your dirty work! And the cognac might have been poisoned by his many enemies, as well as the chess pieces… "Colonel Hogan merely barged into my quarters to see me about… a misunderstanding."

Hogan, who'd been most uncharacteristically silent up to now, leant forward and conspiratorally whispered to Hochstetter: "I thought someone was being tortured there! Have you ever _heard_ him playing the violin?" 

Klink could have wrung the man's neck, but in order to avoid further discussion of the topic, he quickly went on: "So you see, _Major_, your eyes must have deceived you after all."

"The Gestapo is never deceived!"

"Maybe you've mistaken me for another American", Hogan suggested. The comment, for some reason, seemed to restore Hochstetter's confidence, which had been slightly faltering.

"Klink! Was Hogan in uniform when you saw him?"

"No, in his pyjamas, but –"

"So he could have lent his clothes to another spy."

"You think I'm a spy 'cause I don't sleep in my uniform?"

"I will have the camp searched until I find him!"

"Come on, that's just crazy… Kommandant! Won't you tell him this is crazy?"

"Major", Klink said with as much dignity as he could muster,  while resisting the urge to hide behind his spiked helmet. "We both know that the Gestapo is jealous of the efficient and commendable way I rule Stalag 13." Ignoring Hochstetter's contemptous snort, he went on: "As you're no doubt aware, there has never been an escape from my camp. All my prisoners were present at morning and evening roll calls. If there are any _other_ spies", he took care to pronounce the word, "in the area, I suggest the Gestapo catch them."

"See, Major?" Hogan half-whispered, conspiratorally nudging Hochstetter who'd paced up to him by now. "He's _dangerous_ as an enemy… especially when armed with a violin!"

"Hogan!"

Hochstetter whirled around, seemingly having mistaken Hogan's nudge for the sting of a wasp. "I'm going to wipe that smug grin off your face, Hogan! I have", he intonated, "a _reliable_ source who knows _everything_ about you. As for you, Klink – you'll be lucky if you're only sent to the Russian Front, and not shot first!"

"I've heard the hot springs of Novosibirsk are lovely at this time of the year –"

"HOGAN!"

***

At the pick-up point confirmed by Goldilocks, three Brits, one of them gagged, were waiting in silence. Mrs Sterling continued to glare daggers at Crittendon, who still felt rather disgusted with himself despite the fact that London had explicitly forbidden him to act like a gentleman in the matter. Who'd have thought that such a delightful lady would turn out to be a double agent? Well, _he_ had, of course… she might have fooled everyone else, but never old Rodney! Why, as soon as he'd tasted that foul tea of hers, he'd known that there was something wrong with her. No loyal Englishwoman would ever drink a concoction like that.

Looking at Fenella (who, compared to the sour prisoner, was certainly the more enjoyable sight), he couldn't help noticing that the girl was unhappily staring in the direction where Stalag 13 lay hidden behind the trees. "Well, there's no need to be frightened now, Corporal. We'll be leaving this horrid country soon." Had he not known better, he might have thought that at least _some_ of Hogan's men hadn't been _too_ sorry about his departure… though Fenella'd been given quite the parting, with lots of cheering and requests that had sounded almost shocking to Crittendon. Admittedly, the men were prisoners in an all-male camp, but still… He hadn't completely recovered from the sight of the young American, Carter, passionately kissing Fenella good-bye. Apart from the lack of mustache, Crittendon could not at all see what the man had to offer in comparison to an officer and gentleman as fine as, say, himself.

At first, Fenella didn't seem to be responding; then, she suddenly gave a small, hopeful smile. "May I offer you a chocolate, sir?" She thrust her open satchel full of brightly wrapped sweets at him. "I have French, British, all Allied kinds really… the French ones are quite tasty." The last assurance notwithstanding, Crittendon carefully selected a more patriotic Cadbury bar and started peeling off the wrapper. Next to him, Fenella was clutching an American chocolate so hard it had started melting between her fingers.

***

Only a few hours after Crittendon had left, the Messerschmidt factory east of Hammelburg was blown up in a night-shattering explosion. While the rest of the prisoners were cheering and applauding the 'big bang', one man was standing in silence, a huge grin plastered onto his face: Carter was happy.

Upon returning to the village, Major Hochstetter was shocked to find that his best spy had simply disappeared. Surely the Allies would never have believed a feeble old woman to be a double agent! Unable to prove the prisoners' involvement, he nevertheless continued to hover around Stalag 13, accusing everyone of everything and, as Hogan could be heard complaining to Kinch, taking all the fun out of the war.

Much to Colonel Klink's chagrin, the lovely Friederike was not available to replace Helga when the secretary took her next leave. Helga informed him that her parents had sent the girl away to finish her education at a convent school. The Kommandant took some comfort in the fact that his reputation seemed to have preceded him: They had clearly realized what manly threat to their daughter's fragile innocence was lurking behind Stalag 13's fences – the man who was not without reason known as 'Casanova Klink'.

Colonel Crittendon volunteered for five more missions and was caught by the Germans seven times. After the war, he started teaching at Fort Westing. His extensive one-week commando course was considered very instructive, provided you liked geraniums.

A few weeks after General Patton's tanks had liberated Stalag 13, a newly-promoted Captain from Bulllfrog, ND and a blonde British Corporal could be seen meeting, holding hands, and finally kissing at Trafalgar Square. Then again, in post-war London there was nothing too remarkable about such a sight.

Mrs John Sterling escaped a prison sentence due to her feeble condition, and instead went into business, leaving behind a sizeable fortune when she died. The slightly amended recipe for her cookies is still in use today as the formula for Mrs Sterling's Patented Rat Poison.

THE END

My first fanfic of more than two chapters, and I've seen it through! I hope you've had as much fun reading as I've had writing it! One last time: Reviews are, as always, warmly appreciated. Special thanks to Linda, Marty, and I AM The Evil Twin, who've been my most faithful reviewers during all this; also to EJ McFall, who has written my favourite Hogan's Heroes fanfic ever ("Ring of Steel") – I'm honoured you like my effort!! I promise all of you a Newkirk-centered vignette next.


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